"He's also my godfather," Killian says. His voice is flat. He has taken the emotional charge of the betrayal and compressed it into something dense and cold. Operational fuel. "Which meanshe'll respond to me. He'll believe I'm desperate because he's known me since the day I was born."
"Does he know what you sound like when you're scared?"
"He's never heard it. That's why it'll work."
The plan is simple, but high-risk. Killian contacts Seamus through an old-frequency radio relay—a channel the Kavanagh inner circle uses for communications too sensitive for cellular networks. He tells Seamus he's found the document. He tells him he's panicking. He tells him he's contacted a federal prosecutor through an intermediary and is meeting them at the penthouse to hand over the evidence in exchange for immunity.
The story is designed to trigger two simultaneous responses. Seamus will need to intercept the handoff—preventing the document from reaching federal hands. And Seamus will need to report the development to Volkov, because the exposure of the joint venture threatens the entire Russian operation's political and financial infrastructure.
"He'll come to the penthouse," I say. "He'll bring muscle because he can't risk facing the Reaper alone, even a frightened one. And he'll come prepared to neutralize us permanently because a dead son-in-law and a dead Falcone heir are easier to explain than a federal investigation."
"You're using us as bait."
"I'm using us as the only thing Seamus can't ignore."
Killian's eyes hold mine across the table. The green is steady—not the depleted, post-rage flatness from the bathroom, but the focused intensity of a man who has accepted the terms and is calculating the weight.
"What happens when he arrives and there's no federal prosecutor?"
"That's the second layer. While Seamus is in the penthouse, I need Rocco and Brennan positioned in the building. Not in the apartment—in the freight elevator, the service corridor, the secondary stairwell. They arrive after Seamus commits himself. After he speaks. After he reveals enough to confirm the conspiracy in front of witnesses who will carry that confirmation back to both families."
"You want him to confess."
"I want him to gloat. Men like Seamus—men who have operated in the shadow of someone else's authority for decades—don't confess. They perform. Give him an audience of two people he considers already dead, and he'll tell us everything because the telling is the reward. The moment of supremacy he's been denied his entire career."
Killian nods. The nod is small, tight. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a phone—not his primary, a secondary device, older, the kind that connects to networks the modern infrastructure has abandoned.
"The relay frequency," he says. "Seamus checks it every six hours. If I broadcast in the clear—no encryption, no cant—he'll know it's urgent. Urgent enough to break protocol."
"Make the call."
He dials. The phone emits a static-filled tone—the sound of a signal searching for a frequency that exists in the margins.
The connection establishes. Killian lifts the phone to his ear.
And then, I watch him disappear.
It is a terrifying transformation. His shoulders hunch inward, shrinking his silhouette. His jaw loosens. His eyes widen, the predatory focus dissolving into panic. His breathing accelerates—shallow, rapid gasps that sound like hyperventilation. The Reaper vanishes, replaced by a frightened boy who is in over his head.
"Uncle Seamus." His voice is a wreck. Cracked, trembling, carrying the specific timbre of a man who has been crying and is trying to hide it. "Uncle Seamus, I need—I fucked up. I found something. A document. Da and Salvatore—they had a deal. The whole war, it was—Jesus, Seamus, it was all planned. Everything."
He pauses. Listens. His hand shakes, the phone rattling against his ear.
"I know. I know I shouldn't have looked. But I did, and now I can't—I can't trust Da. I can't trust anyone." He swallows, a dry, audible gulp. "I've contacted a federal prosecutor. A woman. She's coming to the penthouse to collect the evidence. I'm trading the document for immunity—for me and Rory, that's all I care about. Just me and Rory."
Another pause. Killian squeezes his eyes shut, a tear leaking out. It’s a masterful performance.
"The penthouse. Tonight. She's coming tonight." He makes a sound like a sob. "Please, Seamus. I don't know what to do. You're the only one I can trust."
He ends the call. He sets the phone on the table.
In the space of a single exhale, the boy is gone. The Reaper returns. His posture straightens. His eyes clear. The tear dries on his cheek, irrelevant.
"How long?" I ask.
"Two hours. Maybe less. Seamus won't wait. The mention of a federal prosecutor will override every other priority. He'll panic."
I nod. I pull out my own phone.
